


You Chose Her

by mygreatestjoyandprivilege



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, M/M, Sherlock's drug habit, Shezza - Freeform, angsty sexytimes, seriously so much angst it's like all angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:50:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mygreatestjoyandprivilege/pseuds/mygreatestjoyandprivilege
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John finds out Sherlock has returned to his habit of drug abuse, he's furious. But nothing prepared him for how much the reason why would break his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Chose Her

**Author's Note:**

> This fic happens during the episode of His Last Vow (like it's the whole scene at the beginning of the episode and then just kind of continues) and Janine is still present. I decided Sherlock was going to be a heroin addict since it seemed the most plausible, so that is his drug of choice for this fic, just in case it's been different in other fics. 
> 
> I made myself sad writing this angsty fic and something like this has probably already been done, but these idiots make me so emotional I decided to try it myself. Hope you enjoy! (any and all feedback/comments are appreciated!)

Sherlock sighed and fell back against the grimy pillows on the floor as he allowed the syringe and tourniquet to fall from his hand. He rubbed his arm where he had injected the drug and felt the warm, familiar sensation of the heroin begin to pulse through his veins. It had been far too long since the last time. He tilted his head back and exhaled deeply, feeling the drug finally begin to properly flow through his system.

He was no longer Sherlock Holmes when he did this, but Shezza. A terrible name for an alter-ego, he knew, but he convinced himself he was undercover and needed a ridiculous name so no one would suspect him of his true self. Shezza was more fun to be anyway. Shezza got to get high at least three times a week and didn’t have to worry about anything else in the world except where his next hit was coming from. In the bubble that was this opium den on the outskirts of London, he was far away from everything that ever caused him pain.

He had turned to Shezza in all his times of darkness, as a means of escape that no one else could offer him. He came here after John had seen him jump from the roof of St. Bart’s, after he watched John sob over his grave and ask him for one more miracle, after he returned to John only to be received with an angry fist rather than open arms. He came here when he learned John was getting married, and again when he was asked to be the best man. He came here the night of the wedding when he left early and alone, and then kept coming back as many days he could since. It made things easier for him, in a way he was certain John would never understand.

And most importantly, Shezza didn’t have to spend his every waking moment thinking about John Watson. He could let the drugs take him away to a better place, on a euphoric high that seemed endless and wonderful and so much better than reality.

Sherlock Holmes did not have that luxury.

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, sighing again and shutting his eyes as the real high began to take effect, filling his body head to toe with a warm, tingling sensation. He smiled at the absolute euphoria the drug was giving him, relishing in every second of it.

After a while of lying there in his blissful, drugged state, he suddenly heard the echo of a familiar voice. It sounded like it was far away, as if someone was shouting at him from across a large field.

“Issac? Hello, mate. Sit up for me,” the voice said, and Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in concentration. He knew that voice from somewhere, but still groggy and slowly beginning to come back down from his high, he couldn’t quite get his brain to focus on who it could possibly be.

“Look at me,” said the familiar voice, and Sherlock lifted his head from the dirty blanket, trying to focus on the sound. He squinted and looked around, slowly coming back to his surroundings.

“Do you think I know a lot of people here?” the voice said softly. Suddenly Sherlock snapped out of his trance in a millisecond, instantly recognizing it. It was John. John Watson. Of course.

“Oh, hello John,” Sherlock said, rolling over to look at the doctor. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Have you come for me too?” He then gave him a ridiculously charming smile, recognizing the sudden flame of anger in his friend’s eyes but choosing to ignore it.

After several screaming matches, a positive drug test, a few slaps to the face, and some more yelling and arguing, Sherlock was in a cab with John headed back to Baker Street.

Sherlock knew John was angry, and he didn’t blame him. He would be angry at himself too if he was in John’s position.

After some more yelling and arguing to get rid of Anderson and Mycroft, Sherlock and John were finally left alone in the flat. Sherlock collapsed into his chair after tossing his jacket onto the floor, tilting his head back and looking up at the ceiling. His euphoric high was unfortunately over and had been for the past half hour. Now he was bored again, and John was probably going to lecture him for the thousandth time. How dull.

“Well?” John said in an irritated voice. He crossed his arms and looked at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock tilted his head forward again and squinted at John from across the room. He was angry, obviously. Absolutely furious, in fact. His hands were balled into tight fists at his sides and he looked like he could punch a hole through the wall at any moment.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up, moving to the fireplace to examine the skull on the mantle. “Well what?” he said flatly.

“You know what. What the hell, Sherlock? Why didn’t you tell me you were on this stuff again? I could have helped you, all you had to do was ask!”

Sherlock slammed the skull down and whipped his head around to give John the fiercest, coldest look he could manage. He may not have been high anymore, but the drugs were still in his system, and it was sparking his emotions more than usual. “How could I not, John?” he practically spat, glaring at him from across the room.

Before John could speak again, Sherlock interrupted him. “You started your perfect married life without me. You moved out. I had to find something else to do with my time.”

“So drugs were the answer? Sherlock, I’m flattered that I actually entertained you that much when we were living together, but come on! I haven’t actually been living in 221B for months!”

“You’re right, John. Baker Street hasn’t been your home for a very long time,” Sherlock replied in a cool, emotionless voice.

John exhaled, his fists shaking slightly as he tried to control his temper. “Don’t try to blame this on me, Sherlock. I told you things weren’t going to change just because I got married. You’re the one who hasn’t been answering my calls!”

Sherlock let out a fake laugh, shaking his head and biting his lip. “You are still such a complete _imbecile_ ,” Sherlock said coldly. “Of course things changed. You’ve gained seven pounds in just your first month of marriage, you’re having nightmares again, and you’ve started cycling to work, for god’s sake. And on top of that, you’re dreading fatherhood like it’s your death sentence. You’re so unhappy that it’s glaringly obvious to everyone in the world but yourself.”

John’s mouth fell open but formed no words. He made a slight sound of protest but didn’t elaborate.

Sherlock snorted and crossed in front of John to the desk, fiddling with some stacks of papers.

“Don’t make this about me. We’re talking about you right now,” John said finally, his voice raising a few octaves.

“And what exactly is there to tell, John?” Sherlock said condescendingly.

“I don’t know, you tell me!” John shouted, throwing his hands up into the air in frustration. “You can’t be back in this place because of me. So what is it?”

Sherlock froze with a stack of papers in his hand. “Oh but it is because of you, John. It’s always been because of you.” He threw the stack onto the desk with a dramatic flourish.

John shook his head, looking thoroughly confused. “What the hell are you talking about, Sherlock? You’ve lost me.”

“That’s exactly it,” Sherlock said quietly, turning to face John. His face had softened and he looked at John with sad, tired eyes.

“I still don’t understand,” John replied, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion.

Sherlock gave him a small, sad smile. “How could you? You chose her.”

John shook his head. “Sherlock, if this is about you being jealous of Mary, you don’t have anything to worry about—”

“It’s not about that!” Sherlock suddenly shouted, slamming his hand down hard onto the desk, unable to hold in his rage anymore.

Part of him wanted to walk right over to John and punch him in the face, but Sherlock controlled himself. _Don’t let the drug become you, don’t lose control_ , he chanted in his head, clenching his fists and closing his eyes for a moment as he felt the wave of heroin-fueled anger wash over him. He exhaled when it passed and turned back to John again.

“Then what is it?” John shouted back, wringing his hands. “If you don’t give me a straight answer, how am I supposed to know what’s wrong?”

Sherlock swallowed, tears suddenly beginning to prick at the corners of his eyes. He took a deep breath before speaking in his normal tone of voice. His hands were shaking and he couldn’t seem to get them to stop, so he clenched them into fists and held them at his sides. “The wedding was my good-bye to you, John. I made sure everything was perfect, just right for you and Mary, from the color of the bridesmaid dresses to the flavor of the cake. My best man speech was my farewell letter to you. The composition I wrote and played on my violin for your first dance with Mary my last parting words, wishing you luck and thanking you for all you had done for me over the years.”

“Sherlock—” John began, shaking his head again.

“John, please!” Sherlock shouted. He swallowed again and lowered his voice. “I need to say this. It may not have been good-bye for you, but it was for me. Mary was the next chapter in your life. I was the part of your life that was finished. Our relationship had run its course, and the wedding was where it finally ended for good. And the fact that Mary is pregnant just sealed the deal. It was rather convenient, in a way.”

John had finally grown silent and was now just staring at Sherlock, his face blank.

Sherlock exhaled. “I had to let you go,” he choked, more tears suddenly filling his eyes and blurring his image of John. “I didn’t deserve you. I don’t think I’ve ever deserved you. But Mary does.”

John opened his mouth then closed it again, the realization finally dawning on him. “Are you saying…are you saying what I think you’re saying?” John croaked, as if he was struggling to say each individual word.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, forcing himself to meet John’s eyes. “Yes, John.”

“But all this time…living together, solving cases together for years, your fake death…why didn’t you tell me?” He didn’t sound angry, just confused and maybe slightly hurt.

Sherlock snorted and shook his head. “I think you know why.”

“But how did I not see it? You’re my best friend…how could I not…” he trailed off, looking distractedly towards the window.

“That’s always been your problem, John. You see but you do not observe.”

A moment of silence fell between them, and Sherlock was starting to regret even bringing it up in the first place. But it had to be said eventually, even if he wasn’t actually outright saying it. This would have to do for now. This is what they did. Feelings and emotions were best left unspoken for this very reason. They were both simply horrible at it. Sherlock could barely bring himself to think the words _I love you_ , let alone say them aloud.

“Well what do you want me to do about it?” John said finally, a slight edge to his voice.

“Nothing,” said Sherlock, slightly taken aback by his tone. “I wasn’t…I wasn’t suggesting anything. I just thought you deserved to know.”

John gave a forced laugh. “Oh that’s great, Sherlock. That’s just _great_. So I’m the reason you’re injecting yourself with heroin again? My marriage is the reason you decided you needed to suffer like this?” His voice was rising in volume again, his anger returning.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Sherlock, becoming slightly irritated himself.

“No, Sherlock. No. You stop this, you stop it right now. I don’t care what the bloody reason for this is, I just want you to stop.”

“It’s not that simple, John!” Sherlock shouted, his temper flaring again.

“I’m not going to sit here and let you make me feel horrible about myself! This isn’t a joke, Sherlock, this is my life! And if you can’t allow me to be happy, then maybe you should just take an overdose and get it over with!”

“What do you want me to say, John? I am happy for you! Why else would I have let you go to Mary?”

“You had plenty of opportunities to tell me about this when Mary wasn’t in the picture!”

“No I didn’t! I hoped that maybe after I came back after two years, things might be different, but you had Mary then. So I stepped away. That’s when I knew things would never be the same again, no matter how much I wanted them to be.”

As this shouting match had been going on, John had slowly been closing the space between them, taking a step forward with every sentence until he was practically looking up Sherlock’s nose to yell at him.

“How the hell was I supposed to know, Sherlock? You never brought anything like this up before. Not even with Irene Adler! I never knew…I never knew anything about your love life. How could I? We never talked about anything in this bloody flat!”

Sherlock finally fell silent, not knowing how to respond.

“How could you do this to me?” John bellowed, suddenly shoving Sherlock back with a forceful push into his chest, sending the detective tumbling backwards into the desk. “How could you allow yourself to give up and fall back into these goddamn drugs?”

“How could I do this to _you_?” Sherlock shouted, incredulous. He shoved John back even more forcefully, still unaware of his strength that the drug was inducing. The edges of his control were beginning to slip, and if he wasn’t careful he could seriously injure John in one push.

John flailed backwards a few steps but thankfully caught himself before he fell back completely.

“How could _you_ get married? How could you leave me, John? How could you move on so easily from this life? From our life?” Sherlock gave John a forceful shove with each accusation, the drug-fueled rage beginning to take over once again. “Did none of it fucking matter to you, is that it?”

“Of course it mattered!” John shouted back, shoving Sherlock as hard as he could. They were fighting like boys in the school yard, shoving and pushing without throwing any punches. “The years I spent with you in this flat were the best bloody years of my life!”

Sherlock paused, breathing heavily. “Then why? Why did you leave? I came back for you, John, and you left me. What was I supposed to do?” He said this in his normal tone of voice, choking back tears once again.

John shook his head, holding back tears of his own, unable to look at Sherlock. “Because I thought Mary was going to be the best thing I ever found in my life…and I was wrong.”

A moment of silence fell between them as they stood a few feet apart. They let the silence of the flat engulf them for a moment, as if it was too much of an effort to speak. Suddenly John punched the wall he was standing next to in frustration.

“It’s not fair, Sherlock!” John shouted. “It’s not…it’s not fair,” he said in his normal voice. He took a step closer to Sherlock, closing the gap between them. “For you to be telling me all of this now…after the fact…I just…if I had known…if you had just told me and not been so _bloody stubborn_ for once in your life…I would have…” he trailed off, his voice breaking.

Finally their eyes met, and for a moment, neither of them breathed. They were inches away from each other’s faces, so close that John could see what looked like flecks of green in Sherlock’s eyes, mixed in with the blue. The two men just stared at each other for a moment, unable to speak, breathe or move.

“Sherlock…” John finally whispered.

A second later, John smashed his lips into Sherlock’s, pulling him down by the collar of his t-shirt. Sherlock responded enthusiastically, taking John’s face in his hands and kissing him desperately, as if his life depended on it. He felt the rough, unshaven stubble beneath his fingertips and ran his fingers over John’s face greedily, attempting to memorize every feature. John’s lips were warm and soft and _perfect_ , just as he had imagined them.

John snaked his arms up behind Sherlock’s neck, one hand holding the back of it and pushing it down towards him, the other tangling his fingers into Sherlock’s dark curly locks. He then moved his hands down to grasp Sherlock’s wiry, lean yet muscular upper arms that he could feel beneath his cotton t-shirt, pulling him so close to his chest that he could feel their hearts racing between them.

They were both breathing heavily but showed no signs of stopping, not even to pull away for air. There was only the feeling of lips on lips, with tongues exploring each other’s mouths. Sherlock started advancing on John as he continued to kiss him roughly, pushing one hand into his chest and forcing him backward.

John stumbled backwards across the room while still managing to kiss Sherlock as he moved. He stretched his neck upwards slightly, not wanting to lose the sensation of Sherlock’s lips on his for even a second. Sherlock then pulled away for a moment, looking John directly in the eyes and aggressively shoving him into the wall next to the kitchen before resuming his savage kissing.

Sherlock pressed his hands into John’s hipbones and rolled his hips, roughly grinding their crotches together. He thrust into John’s obviously hard erection beneath his jeans and then moved to his lips to his neck, where he bit down hard, leaving his mark and relishing in the soft moan that escaped John’s lips.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John gasped as he let out a strangled breath.

Sherlock responded by slipping his fingers into the belt loops on John’s jeans and forcing their bodies even closer together, rolling his hips at just the right angle to get little moans and gasps out of John.

When Sherlock returned to his mouth, John leaned forward and pushed Sherlock’s chest hard, catching him off-guard, making him tumble backwards and almost lose his balance. John then steered him over to the closed door that led out to the stairs, shoving him against it a little harder than necessary.

Two could play this game, if that’s how Sherlock wanted it. The consulting detective grinned as John leaned in for another kiss. He kissed him deeply and fully, allowing his tongue to explore Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock playfully bit John’s bottom lip as he pulled away for air, and John smiled and grinded their hips together once again.

This aggressive, desperate and hot kissing continued for another few minutes before a nervous cough to their left interrupted them. Sherlock’s hand was gripping John’s arse as John had been biting Sherlock’s collarbone and neck possessively. A few of John’s buttons on his dress shirt were undone and his jacket lay haphazardly on the floor behind him. Sherlock had just begun to move his hands towards John’s belt when they were interrupted.

The two turned their heads to see Janine awkwardly standing there in one of Sherlock’s dress shirts, attempting to pull it down more to cover herself, clearly embarrassed. As soon as they turned to look at her she looked away, averting her eyes quickly to the ground.

“Sorry if I’m…um, interrupting something. I swear to god, I didn’t mean to…I heard shouting and I just walked out here…I’m so sorry,” she said quietly.

John immediately released Sherlock, taking a step backward and putting his hands up in the air as if he was under arrest. He cleared his throat awkwardly and clenched his hands into fists, dropping them to his sides. Sherlock stood up straight and adjusted his t-shirt back to its proper position, his face reddening.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John said, exhaling slowly and running his hands over his face. He smoothed down his hair and clothes. “I shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have done that.” He said it mostly to the room, not to anyone in particular as he stared intently at the microscope on the table, but Sherlock still felt a sharp pain in his chest at the words.

Sherlock moved away from the door, awkwardly standing between Janine and John. She still wasn’t looking at either of them and simply took a few steps back into the hallway, perhaps hoping that if she stayed quiet, they wouldn’t notice her.

A moment of extremely awkward silence fell upon the group. No one knew what to say.

“I’m not even going to ask about that,” John said finally, clearing his throat and gesturing vaguely to Janine. “I should just…I should just go,” he said in a quiet voice. When no one said anything, he picked his jacket up off the floor and walked toward the door purposefully. With his hand on the doorknob, he paused and turned to Sherlock, forcing himself to make eye contact.

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Sherlock held a hand up, looking away from John so he couldn’t see the tears in his eyes. “Don’t, John. Just don’t.”

John held his mouth open for another moment, then nodded and opened the door, stepping into the hallway. He stopped and turned around again, looking at Sherlock with the most apologetic look he could manage. “Just tell me one thing, Sherlock,” he choked, his voice shaking with emotion. “Why me? Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be me?”

Sherlock made eye contact with John for a moment, a single tear running down his cheek. “Human error,” he said softly. “Like I’ve always said, sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. And I lost. I lost the moment I met you. It was always you, John. There was never anyone else.”

John held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment, biting down on his lower lip so hard he almost drew blood as he held back tears. He wanted to say so many things to Sherlock. He wanted to throw himself back into his arms, kiss him and tell him how sorry he was and lie to him, telling him that everything was going to be alright. But both Sherlock and John knew that he couldn’t. They had missed their chance, and now it was too late to start over, no matter how much either of them wanted to.

So instead, John tried to give everything he wanted to say to Sherlock in one last look before he nodded curtly then turned around and left, slamming the door behind him.

Sherlock just stood there, slouched and immobile. He looked down at the floor at the place John had just been standing.

Janine finally looked up, forcing herself to look over at Sherlock. She took a step forward and reached a hand out to him, then retreated, stepping back again and crossing her arms. She knew better than to try to comfort him. There was nothing she could do.

“I’ll go get dressed,” she said softly, turning on her heel back towards Sherlock’s bedroom.

After another minute of just standing and staring, Sherlock walked quickly into the living room and dove to the side of the sofa, ignoring the painful scrape of his knees on the rug. He pulled out one of his secret stashes of cigarettes and took one out. He lit it shakily with a lighter that was under the skull and took a long drag from it. He exhaled and looked up at the ceiling, biting his lower lip and attempting to hold back his tears.

After a moment it became too much. Sherlock let out a sob, covering his mouth with a hand. With the hand that held the cigarette, he threw it on the ground as if he was suddenly disgusted by it and stubbed it out with his shoe. He burst into a fit of uncontrollable tears that he had been trying to hold in for so long then sunk to his knees in the place John’s chair used to be.


End file.
